Silent Lucidity
by Primavera Rathbone
Summary: Random Buffy fic I wrote year ago while I was bored in class. A human girl spends an evening with her vampire friend, Spike, and ends up in a bar full of vampires who think she's the Happy Hour special.
1. Chapter 1

I sighed in disgust, flopping down onto my bed after getting home from work. It had been an exceptionally long day at the Sunnydale diner at which I was employed. With a great effort, I kicked my black high-heels off my feet and flung them carelessly across the room. Brushing my emo-bangs out of my eyes, my vision darted from one poster on my slanted ceiling to another: Heath Ledger as the Joker, Queen, Orlando Bloom as Legolas, Hugh Jackman as Wolverine. On my walls, the images ranged: Sweeney Todd, Sherlock Holmes, Jessica Galbreth artwork, Kiss, the Sweet Transvestite from _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_, several crews from _Deadliest Catch_, among other things. Groaning, I closed my eyes.

I had to see him.

I had to see Spike.

The only person I knew I could talk to at eleven o'clock at night without getting shot on sight. For some reason, he actually seemed to enjoy listening to me vent about my petty little problems with customers. He _really_ didn't seem to mind, which never ceased to amaze me. I must admit: for a vampire, he sure had the patience of a saint.

Sitting up, I changed out of my work clothes and into jeans and an Ozzy Osbourne t-shirt, laced up my The Who Converse high-tops, grabbed my iPod, pulled on my black leather jacket, and headed for the cemetery.

* * *

_Only a woman can break his spell  
__Pure in heart, who will offer herself  
__To Nosferatu_

Ah…"Noseferatu" by Blue Őyster Cult, off the album _Spectres_. Excellent song, but not the best to listen to when walking alone, at night, in a cemetery. Especially one that I knew for a fact to be home to numerous vampires. Though (and maybe this is just me) it didn't bother me in the least.

There was a dense, eerie fog encasing the tombstones, only lasting about two feet into the air. After that, it dissipated into the onyx night sky. The only light to speak of was provided by the luminous half-moon and the tiny diamond stars. For a long while, I wandered in this surreal dreamscape, drifting from tombstone to tombstone aimlessly. Then I saw him, leaning against the side of a mausoleum with a very James Dean-esque air about him.

Spike.

He was clothed entirely in black, right down to his signature leather jacket. His pale skin seemed to have a supernatural lustre in the moonlight, as did his "Billy Idol" bleached hair (once, when I mentioned the latter using that phrasing, he informed me that _Billy Idol _stole the look from _him_.) his icy blue eyes locked gaze with my hazel ones, and he smiled gently.

"Genevieve, love," he said as I began to walk toward him, "why're you out so late? Self-searching stroll in the cemetery to 'Dust in the Wind'?"

"No, actually," I replied, starting to shut my iPod off. "Spike-searching stroll in the cemetery to 'Vampires Will Never Hurt You'."

Chuckling and hugging me, he agreed, "That they won't, at least not while I'm around." Letting go of me, he inquired, "So what brings you over to my neck of the woods this time? Bugger of a day?"

"My boss is a dick," I muttered, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket.

"I thought you quit!" Spike scolded as he watched me remove one from the pack.

After lighting the cigarette with my Aerosmith Zippo, putting the lighter back in my pocket, and inhaling deeply, I answered, "So did I."

"That can kill you, you know," he mused.

"So could you, if you wanted to," I smirked, flicking some ash from the end of the small tube. Silently, I watched as the glowing embers hit the ground and faded away.

"Look at me, love," Spike commanded, his tone of voice dark and serious.

My head refused to turn.

Realizing this, Spike placed a hand on the side of my face, and gently turned it to face him. As I looked at him, I saw that his expression had grown stern.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" he implored, moving both hands to grasp my shoulders. "I'd never drain you, not even if I had to. I'd sooner go skinny-dipping in holy water than bite you, and you know it. You know bloody well I wouldn't harm you."

I smiled sheepishly and took another drag off my cigarette. A silent tear began to roll down my cheek, followed soon after by a renegade waterfall. Before I knew it, I was pressed up against Spike, his arms wrapped tightly around my shaking frame.

"Good Lord," he said, shushing me and sitting down with me on the cool grass. "You're crying now? What the bloody hell did I say?"

As we rested our backs against the side of the mausoleum, I buried my face in his shoulder and sobbed, "That's _so sweet_!"

He laughed slightly, tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, and tenderly kissed my forehead. Wiping away a tear from just beneath my eye, he muttered, "You're an emotional train wreck, have I ever told you that?"

Not knowing what else to do, I laughed and said, "It was a _bitch_ of a day."

"I could tell."

About a minute of complete silence passed, during which I killed my cigarette. Sighing deeply, I reached for the pack in my pocket. Almost instantly, Spike's hand shot out and landed on top of mine, pinning it to my thigh.

"Do you need a drink?" he inquired, raising his eyebrows.

I rolled my eyes. "I get it: I _can't_ ruin my _lungs_, but I _can_ ruin my _liver_?"

He smirked. "You look like you could use a drink."

I scoffed. "I _feel_ like I could use _five_, actually, but there's no alcohol at my house."

He playfully elbowed my ribs. "You wanna go to The Bronze?"

"_Please_," I responded, "_no_. If I go to The Bronze, I'll get shitfaced, get picked up by some creepy dude I don't know, and wake up tomorrow morning in a strange apartment with a bad STD."

Spike snickered.

"Besides," I added, glancing down at my wardrobe, "I'm not exactly dressed for The Bronze."

Shrugging, Spike speculated, "I'm sure there are plenty of other bars to go to."

Indifferently, I muttered, "I still run the risk of the creepy dude with the STD."

"Tell you what," he began, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, "I'll take you to a little place I know; very low-key, run by a vampire. You'll _probably_ get shitfaced, but as for the creepy dude with the strange apartment and the STD, don't worry."

I gave a tired laugh. "Don't tell me there _aren't_ any creepy dudes at a bar run by a vampire!"

Rolling his eyes, he replied, "Of course not. That's a bloody lie if I ever heard one. Now, what I was _going_ to say was: _I'll_ take you to the bar; _I'll_ take you back to _your_ place, safe and sound; if you want, _I'll_ stay with you the entire night; and, when you wake up in the morning, _I'll_ be there."

"During the daylight?" I inquired, cocking my head. "Isn't that a little suicidal?"

"Nonsense, love," was his answer, as he waved the question away. "Your house has excellent blinds. Won't let a shred of sunlight through if drawn all the way. Besides, if worse comes to worse, I can just find a dark room to hide in until evening."

"True," I agreed distantly.

"Well?" Spike probed, nudging my arm. "What do you say?"

After a few moments' deliberation, I answered, "Fire up the Harley, love. I'm game."


	2. Chapter 2

We dismounted Spike's motorcycle outside a small, old, cobblestone building down a lonely road a short while later. The wooden sign hanging from a post above the door bore an etching of a deep red liquid in an elegant cocktail glass. Above it was the bar's name, The Crimson Spirit, in a Halloween-esque font.

"Kind of like the mascot/logo thing for The Misfits," I giggled.

"Actually, it's referring to blood," Spike stated matter-of-factly, directing me toward the door.

I rolled my eyes. "I figured, what with the vampires and all. I'm _not_ daft, Spike; it's not like I don't talk to you practically every night."

"True enough," he conceded, grasping the ornate iron doorhandle, opening the door, and gently nudging me inside.

The dimly-lit interior of the bar was absolutely captivating. The walls were of a rich, dark wood; and they were lined with neon liquor signs and posters for numerous horror films, many of which had to do with vampires. Scattered about the bar were all sorts of beings: vampires, demons, as well as one or two humans (however, Spike informed me, they were most likely someone's drink.) Mildly unnerved at the thought that I may be mistaken for a fresh cocktail, I grasped Spike's arm and walked with him to the counter.

The bartender, a tall vampire with a sickly complexion and poorly-dyed neon orange spiked hair (with bold black roots), looked up; first to Spike, then to me, then back again.

"My my, Spike," he began, running his tongue lightly over his teeth and looking at me once more, "it's so unlike you to bring fresh blood to the bar. But how many times do I have to tell everyone that drop-offs are in the _back_?"

Spike glared at him, and my grip on Spike's arm tightened. What the hell was he getting me into?

"Of course," the bartender continued, reaching for me, "it'll be a shame to drain her; she's so beautiful and young."

When was the last time he got his eyes checked? I wasn't _that_ good-looking.

"But I suppose sacrifices must be made," he finished, his black-polished nails slightly touching my cheek. I recoiled sharply and buried myself in Spike's side. I normally wasn't afraid of vampires; however, there I was gravely outnumbered.

"Aw, she's just a jumpy little morsel, isn't she?" the bartender added as Spike wrapped an arm tightly around me, practically cementing me to his side. "How much do you want for her?"

"She's _not_ for sale, Fang," Spike growled, anger flickering in his eyes. "She's a very good friend of mine, and I brought her here so she could get plastered _safely_."

Fang scoffed. "_Safely_? In a bar full of _vampires_? Spike, _honestly_."

I tried not to laugh; I had thought the same thing.

Spike shrugged, conceding that Fang did indeed have a point. Staring him dead in the eyes, he explained, "She was afraid to go to The Bronze because she didn't want to get harassed; that and she isn't exactly in Bronze-preferred apparel. Also, there's a slight chance she might've ran into her boss at The Bronze; and from what I hear, he's a womanizing bastard."

_Damn_, Spike had a good memory. Roughly a year prior, my boss had tried to pick up one of my co-workers at The Bronze. And the prick was _married_! I completely loathed that son of a bitch, but work was hard to find.

Fang nodded in comprehension. "Okay, Spike. I'll spread the word around that no one's to mess with Miss…?"

He glanced at me questioningly.

"What _is_ your name, Miss?"

Smiling sheepishly (I still don't know why), I replied, "Genevieve. Genevieve Rathbone."

Grinning, Fang repeated, "No one's to mess with Miss Genevieve Rathbone, lest they suffer a stake to the heart."

"Good man," Spike approved, sitting on a barstool and signaling me to do the same.

Grabbing a wine goblet and pivoting to face a set of seven scarlet taps, Fang inquired, "What type tonight, Spike?"

Contemplating a minute, he answered, "I'm in the mood for the rare stuff tonight, Fang. I'll take O positive."

Fang whistled, pulling the tap and filling the glass. "That's unlike you," he commented, as he placed the goblet on the bar before Spike. "You tend to lean more toward A positive."

I gulped; that was _my_ blood type.

"What'll you have, Genevieve?" Fang queried, turning toward the numerous liquor bottles behind him.

"Scotch. Rocks. Four fingers," I recited like clockwork.

Both Fang and Spike stared at me, wide-eyed, with mouths gaping.

"Bitch of a day," I justified, smirking.

* * *

I was nursing my fourth scotch when I felt myself beginning to drastically lose focus. My eyes drifted purposelessly from person-to-person and object-to-object, briefly inspecting each before moving to the next. The only thing that I was truly aware of was Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song" playing on the radio.

_I come from the land of the ice and snow  
__From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow  
__Hammer of the gods_

Attempting to concentrate on the lyrics, my focus slowly returned. When my eyes finally ceased darting, they came to rest on the goblet of blood in front of Spike. For a long while, I simply stared at it, its rich burgundy color hypnotizing me.

Blood never really struck me as particularly palatable. Sure, it's wonderful, as long as it's still in one's veins or at a blood bank, but it's not something most people would ever consider drinking. I just didn't see how vampires could do it. What was the appeal?

"I know what you're thinking," Spike informed me, placing a hand on my thigh.

I jumped slightly at the feeling of his hand on my leg; partially because it had yanked me out of my trance, and partially because it sent not-so-unpleasant tremors throughout my body.

Recovering rapidly, I flashed my eyes in his direction and muttered, "Don't go all Edward Cullen on me, Spike."

"Little poser," Fang grumbled, filling himself a goblet of B positive blood.

"Young brat's making us all look like pansy-ass pretty-boys," Spike added, a distasteful look on his face.

I smiled warmly at him and giggled, hiccupping slightly. "Oh, like you're not pretty!"

Fang gave a wry smirk, took a sip of blood, and snickered. "I think she wants you, Spike."

Spike moved his hand from my thigh to my shoulder to prevent me from falling over in a spasm of laughter.

"_I_ think it's the alcohol," he argued, after finally getting me to lean my elbows on the bar. Waiting a while for me to get myself under control, he said, "You know what I meant."

My mind retraced the last few minutes as I tried to recall what he was talking about. My expression grew impossibly vacant. As I became aware of this, I shook my head violently and my gaze fell upon the goblet once more.

"You wanna know how I can stand it, don't you?" Spike probed gently.

I nodded slowly, becoming reasonably coherent again.

Fang leaned on the bar and addressed Spike, idly playing with a small point of his orange hair as he did so. "You knew it was only a matter of time, man. If you're as close to her as I think you are, I'm amazed she wasn't curious about this sooner."

In a low voice, Spike responded, "Yeah; me too."

Raising a pierced eyebrow, Fang inquired, "You gonna give her Vampiric Need 101?"

"Might as well."

"You're on your own," Fang chuckled, patting Spike's shoulder and walking to the other end of the bar.

I swallowed hard. Had I just broken some vampire/mortal code? Did Spike have to drain me now or something? If not, the grim contemplation on his face could've fooled me. The anticipation was torture enough; I prayed I wasn't about to become the bar's fresh supplies after all.

Trembling slightly, I reached out and touched Spike's knee, causing him to slowly face me.

Seeing the panic on my face, he smiled reassuringly and said, "Relax, it's perfectly normal to want to know. We're not gonna kill you or anything."

I exhaled dramatically in relief.

Scanning the walls of the bar, he clarified, "I'm just trying to think of the best way to explain it." His eyes falling on an obviously aged poster, he asked, "Have you ever seen _Nosferatu_?"

I scoffed. "_Duh_! Make it a point to watch it at least once every year."

"Well, it's kinda like that."

I cocked my head in an inquisitve manner, an idiosyncrasy I had picked up from combined sources (Castiel from _Supernatural_, my friend Kellie, a dog I once had.) "You don't look _anything_ like Count Orlok."

He chuckled and raised the goblet to his lips, taking a small sip before saying, "I'll take that as a compliment." Not setting his drink back down, he elaborated, "You know how Orlok went through any and all in his path to get from Transylvania to Germany to drain one particular woman, for no obvious reason?"

I nodded vaguely.

"That's more or less what it is. We have no clue _what_ the attraction is; we just have this hopeless bloodlust etched into our beings." Watching my unchanging expression, he queried, "You still don't quite get it, do you?"

I smirked and shrugged. "I understand that you're just driven to it; I just don't see _why_."

Spike scoffed. "Join the club."

After a short while, he gazed at the bizarre beverage in his hand. Contemplating a good five minutes, he held it in front of me.

Raising my eyebrows, I looked at it reproachfully. "Spike…?"

His eyes meeting mine in a serious stare, he said quietly (yet firmly), "Drink it."

My hazel eyes widened. "_What_?"

"Well, only a _sip_," he clarified, grasping my hand with his free one and twining my fingers around the stem of the goblet. "Any more than that may make you sick."

Examining the dark red substance before me, I asked, "Why am I doing this?"

"Dunno exactly. My theory is that maybe you'll find the answer you're looking for."

"And if not?"

He shrugged. "If not, you'll have an interesting story to tell Kellie or Amanda."

(Don't get the wrong impression; Kellie and Amanda weren't my only friends. It's just that they were the only two who had met Spike. Also, they subsequently were the only ones who knew he was a vampire.)

Sighing, I brought the goblet to my nose and inhaled deeply. I recoiled just a tad as the pungent odor of blood invaded my nostrils. Honestly, I should have seen that coming; it's not like I hadn't smelt blood before. Really, who _hasn't_? I shuddered as I brought the cool glass to rest on my lips, anticipating the unusual sensation that was bound to come next. Tilting the glass, I parted my lips, allowing a small portion of the awkwardly warm liquid to pass through. The instant the metallic taste of human blood engulfed my tastebuds, I cringed and gagged.

I thought I was going to _die_.

Reluctantly, I forced myself to swallow.

My eyes watering from the unusual experience, I glanced over at Spike. Not surprisingly, he was trying not to laugh.

"Well," he managed with a poorly stifled chuckle, "_someone_ would make a horrible vampire!"

Shooting him a deathglare that Severus Snape would be proud of, I growled, "It's an acquired taste, I'm sure."

After staring at me for about half a minute, Spike burst into hysterical laughter. "You are so damn cute when you're pissed!"

I rolled my eyes and slumped over the counter. "_Fuck off_, Spike," I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

"Fang!" Spike called, swiveling his stool to face the main section of the bar. "Could we get another scotch for the basket-case over here?"

I laid my head on the counter, turned away from him, and smirked.

That blood-sucking bastard was lucky I loved him.


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh _fuck_."

I raised an eyebrow and hiccupped, "Wassamatta, Spike?"

Yeah; I was plastered.

His eyes not tearing from the doorway, he whispered, "You'll never guess who just sauntered on into the bar."

"Uh…." My eyes glazed over. "Bela Lugosi?"

Spike rolled his eyes, and I giggled spastically.

"No, smartass. Your _boss_."

"Not funny, Spike," I growled.

"You think I'm _joshing_?"

Reluctantly, I turned to face the doorway.

My heart stopped.

There stood a man: mid-forties, dark complexion, short, brown eyes, bulbous nose, no neck to speak of, and poor taste in clothing. The dude was wearing a _neon purple_ button-up shirt in a _vampire bar_.

"Yep," I muttered, turning my attention back to my scotch, "that's my boss."

Astounded, Spike said, "And you _don't care_?"

"Nope."

"Who _are_ you and what've you done with Genna?"

In a low, gravelly voice, I responded, "There is no Genna; only Zuul!"

"Rathbone?" my boss probed, staring at Spike and I.

"_Shit_," I whispered.

Leaning casually on the counter, Fang asked, "Someone you know?"

I looked up into his eyes, which were of a dark gold color, and sighed, "Unfortunately."

"Her boss," Spike clarified quietly. Turning back to me, he added, "You never _did_ tell me how he upset you so."

"Rathbone!" My boss called again, this time much louder.

"_Don't_ make eye contact!" I snapped at Fang, who had begun to acknowledge my boss. Redirecting my attention to Spike, I answered, "You don't want to know."

"Want me to drain the fucker?" Fang offered, a hopeful tone in his voice.

Touched, I smiled and pulled my pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. As I lit one, I hastily said, "Relax Spike; I'll drop it again once I kill this pack."

"Good," he spat. "Anyway, Fang, I wouldn't advise it. Look at the greasy git. God only knows how many STDs the bugger has. Besides, if _anyone_ fucks with Genevieve, _I'm_ gonna take 'em out _personally_." Meeting my weary gaze, he added, "You mean too much to me, love. No one who screws with you is gonna live, nor will they have an easy death. I _promise_ you that."

I shrieked as I felt a heavy, meaty hand violently grasp my shoulder.

"Rathbone, why the hell didn't you answer me?"

Possibly involuntarily, Spike gave out a low, menacing growl and snatched his hand off my shoulder.

"Who the hell is _he_?"

I inhaled slowly, hoping it would calm my nerves even a miniscule amount. "He's Spike; a very close, very _protective_ friend of mine. Spike, Fang; this is Russell Roberts, my boss."

In contemptuous silence, Spike and Fang both nodded slightly to Roberts.

Ignoring them blatantly, he began to ramble to me. "Listen, don't take what happened earlier the wrong way; I was only foolin' around."

"No, you weren't," I scowled.

Spike clenched his fists. "_What_ happened earlier, _exactly_?"

"Nothin' Blondie," Roberts snapped. "Genni, you know I didn't mean nothin' by it."

"His _name_ is _Spike_," I grimaced, "and _my name_ is _Genevieve_."

"Didn't mean nothin' by _what_?" Spike persisted, leaning forward on his stool. His expression was dark, bordering between pissed and homicidal.

"Didn't mean nothin'!" I shouted in disbelief, gawking at Roberts in complete disdain. "You were _all over_ me! Sleeze!"

"_What!_" Spike roared, trying like hell to not lunge at him.

Leering at him, Roberts said, "You gotta get outta here, Rathbone. No employee of mine is gonna hang with _his kind_."

"_His kind_?" Spike, Fang, and I repeated in unison, through gritted teeth.

"You forget," Fang threatened, his eyes flickering like flame, "you're in a bar _full_ of us, of which I happen to be the _owner_. One word from me; you're history."

Blatantly ignoring him, Roberts grabbed at my arm maliciously and stated, "You're coming with me, Rathbone. _Now_."

"The _hell_ I am!" I exclaimed, digging the lit end of my cigarette into his arm, causing him to let go of me and yelp in pain. Satisfied, I jumped off the barstool and took refuge behind the counter.

Spike, however, was not satisfied.

With a horrifically malevolent snarl, deep creases set in on his forehead. His eyes flickered from their usual topaz blue to a jaundice yellow. Finally, his canine teeth elongated into a pair of menacingly sharp fangs. He had officially "vamped-up", and he wanted blood.

Roberts' blood, to be precise.

Now, under Fang's advisement, I didn't watch what happened next. I just prayed Spike would let Roberts live…just so I could remain employed. All I can tell you is: once Spike and Fang gave me the "okay" to come out, Roberts was battered and bloody on the floor.

"He'll _live_," Spike scowled, returning to his usual physical appearance, "but _only_ because I didn't want you to lose your job."

"If you really wanna finish him off," Fang offered, "I can give her a job here."

"That's alright, Fang," I cut in hastily. "Too many of my friends' jobs depend on this bastard, too."

Grinning, he responded, "Very well. But if you ever change your mind, the offer still stands." Turning to Spike, who was currently wiping droplets of Roberts' blood off his face, he warned, "You might wanna take her and get outta here before the cops come, bro. Normally, I'd say we'd get ridda the body and no one'd ever be the wiser, but we kinda need this douche around."

"Thanks; much appreciated," Spike said, nodding gratefully to Fang. Firmly grasping my hand and leading me toward the door, he urged, "Come on, love; let's get you home."

* * *

"Well, tonight was…interesting," I observed, stumbling out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, after changing into my pajamas. Carelessly, I tossed my clothes into a corner. Tiredly, I threw myself onto my bed. After flattening my face against the mattress (word to the wise: _BAD IDEA_), I rolled onto my side.

Spike was standing over by my large oaken desk, shirtless (if only he knew just how crazy about him I was). The soft glow of candlelight shimmered on his skin; he had lit the tealight candle in my oil burner and filled it with Dragon's Blood oil. At that moment, he was idly stirring the deep red oil with his finger. He had also hooked my iPod up to a small set of speakers, evidently; I could hear "Drowning Lessons" by My Chemical Romance playing quietly with Spike singing along, barely audible.

"Spike?"

He jumped, nearly knocking the oil burner over. Apparently, he hadn't heard me come in. Regaining composure, he exclaimed, "Don't bloody do that ever again!"

I burst into a fit of giggles, rolling onto my back. Next thing I knew, there was a small droplet of oil on the tip of my nose.

Spike sat on the edge of my bed, grinning. I sat up, wiped the droplet with my finger, and smeared it down his arm.

"Bugger," he muttered, staring at it. Then he looked at me, inquiring, "You didn't hear me…you know…_singing_, did you?"

Smiling, I stated, "Yes."

"_Shit_," he whispered, turning away.

I scooted closer to him and placed my hand in the center of his back. "Why 'shit'? You have a beautiful voice."

He scoffed. "You're also intoxicated, remember?"

I shrugged. "Not so much anymore. Seeing my boss fuck-faced on the floor of the bar is a sobering enough experience for me…did I just say '_fuck-faced_'?"

Chuckling, Spike replied, "Yes, you did. Let's pretend that didn't just happen."

I nodded. "Anyway…you do have a beautiful voice. You sound kind of like…what a punk rock Justin Hayward would sound like."

He looked at me, with his eyebrows raised and his mouth twisted in a confused smirk. "A punk rock Justin Hayward? As in the bloke from The Moody Blues?"

"Well…" I added hesitantly, "…with a little Sid Vicious and Billy Idol flavor added…a punk rock Justin Hayward would actually be a strange sight…DUDE! Could you picture him with a _neon purple mohawk_! I would sell my soul to see _that_!"

"Why don't you just take Justin Hayward out of the mix completely? My voice isn't _that_ elegant."

"The hell it's not!" I retorted. "You have an elegant flair, whether you like it or not. Besides, when he was _much_ younger, he was frickin' _gorgeous_! I'd'a fucked him back then, even if it was only for his voice. Hell, I'd fuck his _voice_. Period."

"…I think you need some sleep, love," he said, standing up and beginning to unmake my bed.

"_Fine_," I groaned, also getting up and closing my blinds tight, to ensure no sunlight would enter come dawn. "But you'll have to play something more mellow," I added, nodding toward my iPod. "My Chem isn't exactly something that'll lull me to sleep."

"Understandably so," he conceded, blowing out the oil burner and beginning to fidget with my iPod. "Shall I sing it to you?" he chuckled, smiling wryly.

I sighed, rolling my eyes as I crawled under the covers. "If you wish, but I'm too tired to fuck your voice tonight; sorry."

He laughed quietly. "Expected as much." As he got in bed next to me, "Silent Lucidity" by Queensryche began to play.

My heart skipped a beat as he wrapped his strong, smooth arms around me and kissed my cheek.

"Good night, Spike," I whispered, trying to mask the tremors in my voice.

"Good night, Genevieve," he whispered in reply. Then, gently, he sang:

_I will be watching over you_  
_I am gonna help you see it through_  
_I will protect you in the night_  
_I'm smiling next to you_  
_In silent lucidity…._

**THE END.**


End file.
